


Swallow

by weatherfront



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-08
Updated: 2010-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:29:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatherfront/pseuds/weatherfront
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Untitled Arthur is a very slutty drunk fic. Podfic by anatsuno <a href="http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/arthur-is-very-slutty-drunk">this-a-way.</a></p><p>(<a href="http://tornadobelt.livejournal.com/466.html">Fics not posted on AO3 are still on LJ.</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swallow

There's no other explanation for it. Arthur has a condition that turns him _into_ alcohol when he drinks. He's hot and liquid, pooled in Eames's lap, twining his fingers through Eames's hair, ghosting the palms of his hands across Eames's chest, whispering bits of nonsense into his ear, the flutter of his tongue flicking wet.

"Eames," he breathes, "you're so--"

He picks up Eames's arm and arranges it around his waist, letting a hand curl around his hipbone. Eames grits his teeth and looks away from the flush of skin beneath Arthur's collar.

But Arthur is a jackass so he shifts his weight, rubbing himself all across Eames's lap as he squirms, and it's inevitable that before long he notices Eames's desperate hard-on digging into his thigh.

"Oh," says Arthur, blinking, "that's-- _hello._ "

"Get o--" Eames is about to say, but then Arthur raises his hips up and grinds back down, riding him through their trousers, gripping him around his arms, moaning as the line of Eames's cock fits into the seam of his ass.

"Yeah," he pants, "yeah, _just like_ \-- Eames, _oh._ "

From across the table, Yusuf raises a meaningful eyebrow.

"Tequila makes--" he begins.

"SHUT UP, YUSUF," says Eames.

 

 

 

"Arthur," says Eames, "you really need to-- darling, you're _very_ drunk--"

"Yes," says Arthur, "thank god."

He falls forward into Eames, mashing their mouths into each other, and he's all tongue and heat, warm and bitter and open for Eames, sloppy as he licks across the back of Eames's teeth.

"You taste so," he murmurs, drawing back, the curve of his lips slick with spit. "I want-- Eames, I want to-- I want to taste you everywhere, please."

Eames swallows, hard.

"Is this going to get out of hand?" asks Yusuf, stirring his drink with a straw.

Eames is too afraid to answer, scared of his own expectations, but Arthur is a jackass so he doesn't even wait for the reply; he slides down between Eames's legs, pushing his knees open with his hands, leaning his head against his thigh.

"I want--" he says, and mouths the line of Eames's erection, running a finger up the bulge he finds there, "I bet you taste so _fucking good_ , I bet you're-- fuck, Eames, I _want_ it."

He clutches to the fabric of Eames's trousers and lifts himself onto his knees, rubbing his crotch against Eames's leg, rutting against it like something in heat, his breath washing hot over Eames's cock. The back of Eames's head thunks against the wall of the stall.

"I want to suck you so _bad,_ " pants Arthur.

"YUSUF," yells Eames. "CALL A TAXI."

 

 

 

"Make your decisions wisely, my friend," says Yusuf.

"You have a _starfruit_ in your drink," Eames points out. "Your argument is invalid."

"I assume you want me to call a taxi because you have no intention of indulging Arthur," says Yusuf, as Arthur mutters something breathless right up against Eames's dick.

"That's-- look at him," says Eames, "he's _drunk._ "

"I want you to fuck my mouth," Arthur is groaning. "Come on, Eames, god."

"What if I told you," said Yusuf, "that I have proof that Arthur doesn't want you to send him home?"

"I don't understand," says Eames, propping Arthur's head upright off his crotch with an index finger braced against his forehead.

"This is a text message from Arthur," says Yusuf, "sent twenty minutes before I suggested to you that we go out for drinks."

He holds up his phone, where in the low light of the bar the screen glows, _BRING E TO BAR FULL STOP_

" _...Full stop?_ " asks Eames.

"He is an odd one even when he is sober," says Yusuf. "But look at this-- it's the message he sent right before that one."

 _OPERATION GET E IN MY PANTS IS ON FOR TONIGHT,_ says Yusuf's phone.

"Operation-- wait," says Eames, "that's-- E is _me_ , right? So when he says _Operation--_ "

He can't finish that line of thought because he feels something wet around his hand, and he looks down with a start to see that Arthur has taken his finger into his mouth, sucking it down as far as it will go. The tip of Arthur's tongue traces the groove between his fingers and Eames jerks his entire arm away, alarmed at the shock of arousal that runs through the length of his back.

" _No,_ " whines Arthur, craning his neck, chasing the finger, "I want-- I want it, _Eames,_ give it back."

"Yusuf," says Eames, wiping his finger on the hem of his shirt, "if those text messages aren't real, you're about to aid me in committing a felony."

"I've aided you before in committing a number of felonies," scoffs Yusuf. "But the messages are very real indeed, so you needn't worry about--"

"Your hands," says Arthur, clambering back onto Eames to straddle his knee, "they're so-- they're _huge--_ I love how big they are-- hey, Eames, Eames, do you know something-- can I tell you a secret?"

"What is it?" asks Eames, dreading the answer.

Arthur leans in, tangling a hand around his shoulder for balance. His nails dig into the meat of Eames's flesh like little demon claws.

"Sometimes when I'm alone," says Arthur, his eyes wandering to meet Eames's straight on, "I think of you and I finger myself."

Eames _chokes._

"My work here is done," says Yusuf, and drains the last of his drink before standing up. "Godspeed, old friend. May you gain all that your heart desires-- and may you both be pleased at the outcome-- and may you not tear anything important-- and may you always remember to use a condom--"

He trails off as he walks backwards out of the bar, and Eames realizes that Arthur hasn't stopped talking yet, still with his hand flexing on and off of Eames's shoulder, the heat of his body pressing down into Eames's thigh.

"--so hard to concentrate," Arthur is saying, "because I just stare at them and I wonder what they'd feel like inside me, so thick and solid, but I've seen you play with your poker chip-- I know you're not clumsy at all-- and I think of you bending me over a desk so that you can finger-fuck me just the way I like it, yeah, tease me until you have me _begging_ for it, just shallow at first, stretching me open, and then you'll push in deeper and touch me right _there_ , Eames, oh, god--"

Arthur's breath hitches and he rolls his hips, his eyes fluttering closed.

"Wait," says Eames, "wait, Arthur, _wait._ "

"I don't want to," says Arthur. "I want your fucking cock inside me _now._ "

" _Wow,_ okay," says Eames, "that's-- all right, just-- forgive me for being a little dense, but this is all happening very quickly, you understand. Just a couple hours ago I was pretty set in my knowledge that you couldn't bear to stand me for what it takes us to finish a job, and now all of a sudden you're telling me that you-- that sometimes you--"

"I fuck myself," offers Arthur, "and I wish it were you fucking me instead."

"Yes, uh-- that," says Eames.

"Sometimes it's not my hand, sometimes I use a vibrator," says Arthur. "But that's not right either, I mean, it's bigger, probably at least as big as your dick, but-- it's not _you_ , and I want _you_ inside me, coming in me, Eames, I want you to fuck me hard and dirty and then I want you to wash me out in the shower, scraping me clean and touching me all over until my knees give out and I can't stand anymore and you fuck me again right up against the bathroom wall, holding me up around your waist--"

" _Wait,_ " yells Eames, "just-- Arthur, wait a second, you keep saying-- what does it mean, that you want _me_ to-- look, Arthur, why does it have to be me?"

"That's a stupid question," says Arthur.

"Is it?" asks Eames.

"I'm so in love with you," says Arthur, "you dumbass."

His whole mind goes blank. The next thing Eames knows, they're in a stall of the bathroom at the bar, Arthur's mouth hot against his own, where he swallows the moans that fall from Arthur's tongue and runs his hands down the tight curve of his ass through fabric. It's not a dirty bathroom, as far as bathrooms go, but it's indubitably seedy; and Arthur may not be as prim as Eames had first figured him out to be, nor as humorless, but he's definitely not _seedy_ and Eames is still in disbelief as Arthur winds his arms around Eames's neck, pushing their bodies together. The friction there is so perfect that Eames half considers coming just like that, fucking each other's legs and hips until they're sticky and spent inside their trousers, but then Arthur breaks away and nearly tears Eames's belt off.

"God, yes," he says, "I can't fucking-- come on, Eames, show me, goddammit--"

In his hurry Arthur yanks Eames's boxers down to his ankles, and Eames groans as the waistband snags against his erection, but then Arthur is on his knees in front of him and there's a wild excitement in his face as he cups Eames's cock in his hand.

"Fuck," he says, "you're gorgeous, can I--"

Before Eames can think to answer, Arthur grabs him around his legs and wraps his lips around his cock. Arthur is fervent as he licks and sucks, more enthusiasm than finesse, but it's that giddy fervor that nearly sends Eames over the edge, Arthur tonguing the shape of his slit, the flush rising on his cheeks, eager like he couldn't be happier than with Eames's cock down his throat.

"You-- Arthur, god," manages Eames, "you can't expect me to-- you can't say that you _love_ me and then suck me off and not expect me to--"

"No, no," says Arthur, letting Eames's cock slip from his mouth, "I fully expect you to, Mr. Eames, I want-- I want you to fuck me right now, god, just-- fuck me, fuck me already, oh, _please._ "

He stumbles up against the wall of the stall, tugging his trousers and pants down, unsteady in his haste. Eames wants nothing more than to push himself into that glorious, magnificent ass, but he's a little worried about the toll it would take on Arthur.

"Darling, you must know how I feel about you," he says, "and if this is going to hurt you, I'm not--"

"Okay, Christ, will you just shut up, oh my god," snaps Arthur, "what kind of point man do you think I am, you really think I got us here without preparing for-- Jesus, Eames, I've been thinking about this all day long, just before I left my hotel room to come here I already-- come on, I'm ready, will you just _fuck me, Eames._ "

He clamps his hand around Eames's wrist and practically drives Eames's fingers into his ass, and god, but he's right, he's warm and pliant and slick inside with lube, and Eames thinks of Arthur spread out on the hotel bed, fucking himself as he thinks of _Eames's hands, Eames's cock,_ and Eames thinks of those slender fingers twisting in his own ass, Arthur writhing and gasping as the sheets ripple and pull taut beneath him.

"Oh," pants Arthur, "fuck, Eames, fuck, yes--"

His hands scrabble against the wall, searching for purchase, and he rocks his hips and arches back into Eames's hand, thighs quivering under the strain. His breath fogs up the wall beside him, condensation snaking down in droplets, and Eames's cock leaks hard against his stomach as Arthur opens up beneath him, just letting himself _get_ fucked, inviting it, craving it. His balls are near fit to burst, so Eames draws his fingers out of Arthur with some mix of regret and anticipation, though he'd love to work Arthur apart with just his fingers, make him beg for his cock, it really wouldn't do to come like that, not when Arthur's ass is right _there_ , hot and loose for him.

All of it just for Eames, and as he pushes into Arthur and feels him clench all around him, closing in like he can't wait for it, it takes all the willpower Eames has to keep from getting vicious, to stop himself from taking and tearing everything out of Arthur, from thrusting into him with all the triumph of _owning_ something, merciless, fucking him until he passes out with Eames's name on his lips-- but god, he wouldn't, he couldn't, not when he _loves_ this silly, beautiful thing pressed up against him, Arthur wanting him, _loving_ him.

"Eames," moans Arthur, "Eames, Eames, harder, fuck--"

And as sweet as it is to hear Arthur calling out for him, asking him for _more, more, deeper_ , it's just as good when their rhythm turns frantic, the hinges of the stall creaking, Arthur unable to form words anymore, just a stream of soft, desperate noises, and Eames wraps his hand around Arthur's throat and feels the ragged breath heave in and out of him, under the sheen of sweat on his skin. Eames reaches for Arthur's cock and moves their hands together, stroking him to climax, and Arthur draws in a sharp gasp as he shudders and comes into Eames's grip, and Arthur's fingertips turn pale where they dig into the wall, and god, he goes so _tight_ around him that Eames can't last very long at all, just a few more long thrusts and he's gone, the edges of his vision blurring out of focus as he comes, oh, god, as he comes _inside Arthur_ , and it's so preposterous that Eames hardly dares to pull out of him even as their aftershocks cool into tremors.

"Don't," says Arthur, "don't-- just-- stay in, Eames. Just-- for a little bit."

"Jesus Christ, Arthur," says Eames.

"So much for Yusuf's advice," says Arthur, "you know, about the condoms."

"Maybe next time," says Eames, and bites his tongue when he catches himself.

Arthur looks blearily behind him, smiles when he sees the expression on Eames's face.

"Of _course_ there's a next time," he says. "Preferably at my room in about an hour or so."

Eames breathes out, the space beneath his ribs light with something like relief, because somehow, through all their fumbling and stuttering and terribly crossed signals, they've made it after all. And that's something to remember, something to celebrate, perhaps with Arthur's vibrator plugging him up and making him tremble and whimper as Eames holds all of his limbs down flat, perhaps lazy in the bathtub as Arthur goes limp in the heat and they slosh buckets of water onto the floor, and with everything they don't manage to get to saved for _next time_ , because of course there's a next time. Thank you for tequila, benevolent gods of Mexico.


End file.
